


Familitas

by sospes



Series: Familitas [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Reading, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22575592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: After Sodden, Yennefer goes to ground to lick her wounds.Except then Geralt finds her with a Child Surprise in tow, and then he goes and finds his bard, and somehow Yennefer ends up with a life that she never expected to have.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Familitas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640197
Comments: 128
Kudos: 1789
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	Familitas

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of fluff, a bit of angst, a bit of porn, and a lot of Yennefer being a sassy bitch.

Yennefer is licking her wounds after Sodden when Geralt finds her. 

She’s dragged herself to an isolated cottage in the countryside, relying on the common people’s fear of sorcery and a few well-placed rumours about the violet-eyed witch’s proclivities for murder and mayhem. Superstitions are easy to manipulate and so she finds herself alone, just how she wants to be, alone to turn into herself and rage at her weakness, her fear, her failures. She spends weeks like that, living in her bitterness and her self-loathing, until one morning there’s the thud of a fist at the cottage’s front door. 

She knows who it is without having to answer. 

Geralt stands in the doorframe, the sunlight bright at his back, and Yennefer has half a mind to tell him where exactly he can fuck to when she sees the girl at his side. “Yen,” he says, his voice tight. “I need your help.” 

Yennefer looks between him and the girl, whose hair is blonde and whose eyes are dark with tiredness. “She’s your Child Surprise,” she says. “Isn’t she?” 

Geralt’s jaw is tight, and he nods. 

The girl pushes forward, her shoulders back, her head held high. There’s a elegance to her manner that speaks of manners and high breeding, and then she says, “I am Princess Cirilla, granddaughter of Queen Calanthe, heir to the throne of Cintra.” Then she falters, pauses, comes to the end of the titles she knows by rote and slips into the soft humanity of a girl whose world has burned to ashes around her. “Geralt says you can teach me to control it. Will you help?” 

Yennefer looks between the princess and the witcher. “Control what?” she asks, and she sees the darkness flash in Geralt’s gaze. 

“There’s a power in her,” he says, short and tight. “Something I’ve not seen before, or at least not for a long time. There’s only so much I can do – she needs a sorcerer. She needs someone like you.” He pauses, glances around, because they’re still having this conversation on her doorstep and, okay, sure, this probably isn’t the best place for this. “Yen,” Geralt says, and that twists something inside her. “Can we come in?” 

Yennefer should tell them both to fuck off and go back to her life. 

“There’s a barn round the back,” she says to Geralt, not quite meeting his gaze. “There’s hay, and shelter for your horse.” She doesn’t give him a chance to reply, just turns her attention to the girl, and says, “Come in, Cirilla.” 

“Just Ciri,” the girl says, and follows her into the house. 

Yennefer spends the morning talking to the girl and ignoring the witcher. It’s surprisingly easy, because the more she finds out about Ciri’s power, the more she tastes it on the edge of her tongue, the less she’s interested in whatever Geralt of bloody Rivia has to say to her. And it’s not just the power, not just the raw Chaos that she can feel splintering at the edges of her mind, no, it’s the fact that there’s a girl sitting in front of her, hair tangled, hands knotted in her lap, bitterly afraid of the thing that lives inside her. 

Yennefer takes Ciri’s hands in hers, and holds them tight. 

“Can you help her?” Geralt asks quietly, once the sun has set and Ciri is fast asleep in a pile of blankets in the small second room upstairs. 

“I think so,” Yennefer answers, a cup of wine sitting heavy and cold in her hand. “I can at least teach her to control it a little, so that she isn’t so… _afraid_ of what she can do. That’s the first step.” 

“What is it?” Geralt asks, leaning forward across the table towards her. “Do you know?” 

“I’m not sure,” Yennefer answers. “If I had access to Aretuza, to the resources there…” She shakes her head. “I’ll find out what I can. We’ll know more soon.” 

Geralt nods, and silence settles over them. 

“This doesn’t change anything,” Yennefer says into the silence, her voice tight, her heart beating hard in her chest. “I’m helping _her_ , Geralt. I’m not doing this for you.” 

“I know,” Geralt says, his head bowed. 

Yennefer’s jaw is tight. “I thought I felt something for you, once,” she says, and it’s not as full of rage as it was on top of the mountains, not as raw, but it still sits in her gut and eats at her like a cancer. “But that was a lie, all a lie. And now even if there were something there, something genuine, it doesn’t matter – because I don’t know what is real and what’s your fucking _wish_.” She pauses, just for a second. Her chest is tight, her breath is fast. “It’s over,” she says, the words like lead. “It’s finished. Whatever there was once, whether it was a lie or the truth or somewhere in between, it’s _done_.” Her mouth is bitter. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Geralt says – and, actually, that might be the moment that Yennefer’s heart breaks. If he’d said _no, Yen, no_ , she would have fucking run to him. If he’d said _I still want you,_ she would have wanted him, too. “There was something between us, I believe that,” Geralt is saying, quiet, subdued, almost mournful, “but whatever it was, it’s gone now.” He’s quiet for a moment. “And I am sorry.” 

Yennefer gets to her feet, clutching her wine cup so hard she thinks it might shatter in her hand. “Everyone’s sorry for something,” she says, and goes to bed. She leaves Geralt behind her, leaves him to find his own place to sleep, his own comfort for the night, and if in the morning she finds him asleep in the barn with his bloody horse, well, she’s pretty sure he’s had worse beds for the night. 

In her room, in her bed, Yennefer drinks the wine. And then she conjures herself another, and drinks that one, too. 

The days pass. 

Ciri grows and blossoms under Yennefer’s care, not so much with her command of her powers, no, but with her mannerisms. She’s not shy when Geralt brings her to Yennefer, not by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s a quietness in her heart that’s palpable. She’s seen a lot, seen so much, and that’s not something that can be easily erased – but with Yennefer’s help, and Geralt’s help, she can try. She brightens with every day that passes, and when she and Yennefer sit together in meditation, there’s a soft peacefulness that’s slowly beginning to settle over her mind. 

Geralt is Geralt, of course. He hunts for food in the woods, occasionally heads to the nearest farm to barter for milk and cheese, and even more occasionally disappears for a few days to fulfil a contract in one of the local towns. The first time he goes, Ciri contracts into herself by the third day, nervous and antsy, but by the second and the third, she’s used to Yennefer’s presence, used to being alone with her. She’s calmer. 

They work together, on those days that Geralt’s away, pushing into the power that nestles in Ciri’s core. It hurts the girl, sometimes, sends blood flooding from her nose, her eyes, but Yennefer knows how far she can push her, knows how much she can take. It’s more than Geralt thinks, that’s for sure, and Ciri needs to be able to defend herself. There are people in this new world, this world of war, who will try to take what she has. Yennefer is going to leave her undefended. 

The days pass, and the pain in Yennefer’s heart when she looks at Geralt fades. She can remember the nights they shared without gritting her teeth, can appreciate his gentleness with Ciri without a barbed word, can thank him for bringing herbs and tinctures back from town unasked for. He’s courteous with her, in his own Geralty way, and it takes Yennefer a little by surprise how comfortable she can be in his presence. 

Ciri is sitting by the cottage’s fire one night, staring into the flames, her forehead creased and her gaze elsewhere. Yennefer is half watching her, half reliving Sodden in her mind, trying to know whether she could have done anything differently, whether she could have saved them, when she realises that the ground is starting to rattle. She sits upright, heart thudding louder, then realises that it isn’t an attack, it isn’t an invasion, it isn’t the Nilfgaardians and their broken magic – it’s _Ciri_. 

Geralt shoves through the door, his expression somewhere between panicked and afraid. “There’s—” 

Yennefer doesn’t give him a chance to finish. “Ciri,” she says, going to the girl on her knees, hands taking hers, holding her fingers close and studying her face, her eyes, distracted and pained. “Ciri,” she says, as steady as she can force her voice to be. “Ciri, listen to me. Ciri, it’s okay. You’re _safe_.”

Ciri lets out a shaky breath, long and pained, and the ground stops shaking. 

“It’s okay,” Yennefer says, and Ciri sits there, still, upright, staring at the fire as tears run down her face. “It’s okay, Ciri, it’s going to be okay.” 

Geralt watches her as she calms the girl down, as she takes her to bed, as she puts her to sleep, and there’s a thread of worry in his eyes that she doesn’t know how to quell. 

“I thought you could help her,” Geralt says, eventually, once the moon is high and Ciri is fast asleep. “I thought you’d know how to stop this from happening.” 

“It’s a process,” Yennefer says, slow and heavy. “It’s not the kind of thing you can just fix. It takes time.” 

Geralt hums, but doesn’t look convinced. 

Yennefer sighs. “She’s a child, Geralt,” she says, acutely award of how they were both children, once, children who were taken apart and betrayed. “She saw her homeland fall. She saw her family murdered. That’s not something that can just be fixed. She will carry it with her for the rest of her life.” 

Geralt’s hand settles on her shoulder, heavy and warm. “We will carry it with her,” is all he says. 

Yennefer lets out a long breath, and nods. 

Yennefer wakes earlier than usual one morning, woken by the faint sounds of activity from outside. She goes downstairs, opens the front door, and watches as Geralt goes about the long process of saddling Roach. He talks to her as he does, speaking in a low voice that she can’t make out, and rubs a hand down her nose, feeds her something out of his pocket. There’s a crabapple tree in the cottage’s little garden, and she knows that the crabapples disappear all the faster when Roach is allowed to wander freely. 

There’s a care and a tenderness in Geralt’s hands, Geralt’s voice, and, gods, Yennefer is not about to be jealous of a damn _horse_. 

“Going somewhere?” she asks, to break the silence. 

Geralt glances over to her, then tightens Roach’s bridle one last time and pats her flank. “For a few days,” he says. 

“A contract?” 

Geralt doesn’t answer that, but there’s a skittishness to the surface of his thoughts that Yennefer can’t help but pick up on. “I’ll see what I can find from the local apothecaries,” he says. “I know we’re running low on some things. Wolfsbane, hemlock.”

Yennefer frowns. “Where are you going, Geralt?” she asks, point blank because she knows that that’s the best way to get Geralt to actually answer the damn question. 

Geralt doesn’t answer that, either. “I’ll be back in a few days,” he says, and mounts Roach in one smooth motion. 

“Geralt,” Yennefer tries, but his shoulders are hunched and he wheels Roach around without looking at her, sets her trotting away into the trees. “Fuck,” Yennefer mutters, crossing her arms, and sighs. She tries to sort through the scattered thoughts she can still feel in his head, but, if she’s honest, it’s all a bigger mess in there than it usually is. Geralt is not good at processing his emotions, Yennefer is well aware of this – and she shakes her head, goes inside, and gets on with the day. 

She takes Ciri into the woods with her, that day, and shows her the basics of magical woodscraft, the barks that will heal, the plants that will kill. They end up covered in dirt and dead leaves, kneeling at the edge of a still, scummy pond, and then Ciri gets a mischievous light in her eyes and flicks a handful of water in Yennefer’s face. Yennefer retaliates, of course, and they splash each other heavily, filling the forest with their laughter. 

It’s the lightest Yennefer has felt in years. 

That night, after Ciri has fallen asleep and before her nightmares have started, Yennefer sits at the small dressing table in her room and picks up her mirror. She stares at its gilded edges for a moment, lips tight, then mutters a quiet spell and watches as her own reflection dissolves into a nighttime forest, a low-burning fire, Roach cropping grass and Geralt sitting on his bedroll, eyes closed in meditation. He’s safe, he’s alone, and so Yennefer negates the spell, puts the mirror down, and goes to bed. 

She does this, sometimes. She did it before the mountain, before she knew the truth – watched Geralt in her mirror, killing monsters and travelling the continent, watched him to reassure herself that, even though he wasn’t with her, he was still there. She still does it now, occasionally, maybe out of habit, maybe out of melancholy, maybe to make sure that, wherever he is, he isn’t leaving Ciri to her destiny alone. 

Yennefer sleeps, and wakes to the soft sun in the morning. 

The next day is much the same: potion-making in the garden, crushing the barks and berries they gathered yesterday into healing poultices and lethal tinctures. There’s less splashing, but Ciri watches intently as Yennefer shows her things she would have never learned in her life as a princess. “Does the size of the leaf matter?” she asks, and then, “Is it better for the berries to be ripe?”, and Yennefer answers her questions one by one, guiding her clumsy hands through motions that will one day be second nature. 

“Where’s Geralt?” Ciri asks that evening, mouth full of bread and pottage. “He usually says goodbye to me before he goes on a hunt, but he was gone before I woke yesterday.”

Unease twists Yennefer’s gut. “He’s fine,” she says, as calm and confident as she can manage. “He’s just gone to town. He said he’ll be back in a few days.” 

Ciri doesn’t look convinced. 

After nightfall, Yennefer still feels that uneasiness in her stomach. Geralt is fine, she knows that, he’s a Witcher, he can look after himself – but still. He was so… _secretive_. Geralt is quiet, yes, even reserved, but he isn’t secretive. Not with her. Not with Ciri. 

She picks up her mirror, murmurs the spell, and feels her heart thudding loud and bitter in her chest. 

It’s not a nighttime forest this time, no, it looks like an inn of some kind – wooden walls, candlelight and firelight, and Geralt, sprawled up against the headboard of a cheap-looking bed, naked, legs spread, a dark-haired head and slim shoulders between his thighs. There’s sweat on Geralt’s chest, a practically feral look in his golden eyes, his lips parted – and Yennefer feels anger bubbling up in her chest, hot and bitter, because _this_ is why he left them? To go to the nearest town to get his cock sucked by some paid whore? 

Except then Geralt pushes his head back, groans, says, “Jaskier, I’m—”, but doesn’t have a chance to explain any further because Yennefer knows what he looks like when he comes, and he does, eyes closed, head flung back, tendons tight in his neck.

Wait. _Jaskier?_

The fucking _bard_ wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lips roughed and reddened, and crashes to the bed next to Geralt. He huffs a laugh into Geralt’s shoulder, rubbing a hand across his stomach, and Yennefer should probably stop watching this _right now_ but she sees that Jaskier’s cock is still hard against Geralt’s thigh and something twists unexpectedly hot in her gut. 

Geralt clearly notices, too, because he rolls onto his side, kisses Jaskier hard and takes his cock in hand. Jaskier makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat—oh, Yennefer should _definitely_ stop—and it’s Geralt’s turn to laugh, throaty and hoarse. “Next time,” he says, voice orgasm-rough, “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk straight. But for now, this will have to do.” 

Jaskier whines, deep in his throat. “Fuck, Geralt,” he says, his cheeks pinked, his hair a mess. “If I’d known _this_ is how you’d apologise for abandoning me on the top of a mountain, I’d have made you do it a lot soon– _er!_ ” – at which point he goes rigid, grips his fingertips deep into Geralt’s shoulders, and comes. 

Yennefer’s throat is dry as a bone, and her fingers are white-knuckled around the handle of the mirror. 

Jaskier slumps into Geralt’s side, panting for breath. “Gods, Geralt,” he says, reverent, ecstatic – but then his hand skates across Geralt’s chest, fingertips tripping against the silver medallion still around his neck, and he pauses, stills. “Geralt,” he says, voice tight. “Your medallion is vibrating.”

Geralt switches from fucked-out to ready to fight in an instant – and that’s when Yennefer notices it. His body language. He senses danger, and his first instinct is to curve towards the bard, to shield him with his body. 

And then Geralt looks up, nostrils flaring, looks up straight at her, and growls, “ _Yennefer_.” 

Yennefer drops the mirror, swipes away the spell, and feels her cheeks flush bright red. “Shit,” she says into the quiet of the night. 

Geralt comes back to the cottage two days later, Jaskier riding a grey mare at his side. Ciri goes to meet them both, wrapping her arms around Geralt’s waist the moment he comes down off Roach’s back, and—which is a little more unexpected—then greets Jaskier with a familiarity that Yennefer didn’t expect. 

Jaskier, for his part, sweeps an elegant leg. “Princess,” he says. “It’s an honour to see you again. And I am so very sorry for your loss.” 

Yennefer stiffens, but Ciri just smiles a sad smile and extends her hand. Jaskier takes it, his lute slung over his shoulder, and Ciri leads him back to the cottage. He catches Yennefer’s gaze as he passes, two spots of colour high in his cheeks, and says, “Yennefer.” 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says, and goes to Geralt. 

He’s leading the two horses round to the barn, the grey nuzzling at his shoulder as she trots at his side. He looks up as Yennefer approaches, and she sees something tighten in his jaw. It’s an expression she hasn’t seen before, something new, and she tamps down the regret that sparks in her gut, folds her arms, says, “Geralt.” 

“You had no right,” Geralt snaps, stripping the horses of their tack. 

“You refused to tell me where you were going,” Yennefer snaps back. “You were acting strange, you worried _Ciri_. I needed to know where you were. I needed to know if you were alright.” 

“You had _no right_ ,” Geralt repeats, rounding on her. “Spy on me as much as you like, Yen, but leave him out of it.” 

“That’s hard to do when I have no idea that you’re going after him,” Yennefer bites back. 

Geralt’s jaw springs shut, and they stare at each other, breathing heavy. 

There was a time, Yennefer knows, when this scene would have taken another turn. 

“You brought him here,” she says, eventually. “Your bard. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I trust him,” Geralt says. “And he knows Ciri. He performed at the Cintran court throughout her childhood. She’s mentioned him before, she remembers him.”

“He’s not like us, Geralt,” Yennefer says flatly. “He’s a poet. He doesn’t have power, he can’t fight. He can’t protect her like we can.” 

Geralt stills, his hand on Roach’s cheek. “He stays, Yen,” he says, and his tone brooks no argument. “I’m not letting him go, and you’re not going to change that.” 

Yennefer studies him for a moment. “Do you love him?” 

Geralt doesn’t look at her, unbuckling Roach’s saddle. “That’s not your question to ask,” he says flatly. He moves onto the grey mare as Yennefer watches, unspeaking, and then looks back at her, golden eyes hard. “Don’t fuck with him, Yen,” he says, a warning in his voice. “You don’t have to like him, but I need you not to hurt him.”

“I’m not your jealous ex-lover, Geralt,” Yennefer says, rolling her eyes. “I’m not going to make poppets of him and stab pins through his eyes. But I won’t be best friends with him just because you’re fucking him, now.” 

Geralt’s lips press into a thin line. “It’s not like that.” 

“Looked pretty like it to me,” Yennefer says, and she knows it’s not the right thing to say but she can’t stop it. 

Geralt’s hackles rise. “Don’t do that again,” he says. 

“I don’t want to do that again,” Yennefer bites, even though she knows that’s not entirely true, knows that she’s had that image at the back of her mind since she saw it, the strength in Geralt’s hands, the bruised red of Jaskier’s lips. 

“Good,” Geralt snaps. 

Yennefer stands there, breathing harsh, cheeks flushed, and she can feel the thoughts flitting through Geralt’s mind, the emotions, heat and want and and worry, the _nerves_. He’d never admit to it, but he’s nervous. He wants this to work. He wants them to be okay. 

Well, Yennefer’s not exactly about to make things easy for him, but there’s no point in needling him. “I’m going back inside,” she says, softer. “Make sure your bard hasn’t burnt the cottage down yet.” 

Geralt’s expression doesn’t change, but she can feel him soften. He takes it for what it is, a peace offering, an olive branch. “I won’t be long,” he says, and turns his attention to Jaskier’s mare. 

Yennefer leaves the barn and starts back to the cottage, then pauses, stands in the world and just breathes for a second. It’s a cool spring morning and she’s barefoot, so the dew slicks against her bare skin, blades of grass catching in the hem of her skirts. The trees around the rundown cottage are starting to blossom, flowers budding in the grasses at their roots, and she can hear birds singing, soft and chirping in the bright air. It’s peaceful. It’s quiet. 

She can also hear a lute, because of course she fucking can. 

Yennefer pauses in the cottage’s open door, one hand resting against the doorframe. Ciri is sitting with Jaskier in front of the empty fireplace, both of them crosslegged on the floor, and Jaskier has his lute in his lap, picking out a melody that Yennefer doesn’t recognise. It’s soft, gentle, and then the bard starts singing and, oh, it’s a lullaby. A Cintran lullaby. 

Yennefer looks at Ciri’s face, and the rawness of the pain she sees there twists her heart. 

She turns away, and stays away until she hears Jaskier’s lute quiet. And then she stays away a little more, because she didn’t know Ciri before, in Cintra, and neither did Geralt – and, really, neither did Jaskier, but he’s a memory of what Ciri used to have, an echo of the life she used to lead, a song on the wind that her grandmother used to sing to her when she couldn’t sleep after the death of her parents. Yennefer feels the hum of Ciri’s mind, feels the whisper of her pain, and she doesn’t see it when Jaskier puts his lute to one side and pulls her into his arms, holds her tight, doesn’t see Ciri bury her face in his silken doublet and stain the azure fabric with her tears, doesn’t see Jaskier stroke her hair and rock her against him – and Yennefer might not see the comfort Geralt’s bard brings, but she feels it in her head and in her heart. 

“It’s okay, Ciri,” Yennefer hears Jaskier whisper. “It’s okay to cry.” 

Yennefer presses her palm to the cottage’s cool stone, and breathes. 

They settle into a rhythm remarkably quickly. Yennefer teaches Ciri about Chaos, about magic, about charms and healing and plucking thoughts out of others’ heads – although she only gets Ciri to practice that on Jaskier the one time, because the thoughts that they both find in his head aren’t exactly appropriate for polite company. And then Geralt takes over, teaches Ciri to defend herself, teaches her to fight as much as she can and to run away when she can’t – and Jaskier sits on a rock or a tree stump or just the ground, strumming his lute, singing snippets of songs and generally offering helpful commentary that isn’t helpful in the slightest. 

Yennefer would never admit it, but it’s not the worst way to spend her days. 

Yennefer has her room and Ciri has hers, both upstairs in the little cottage, and Geralt and Jaskier sleep on a makeshift pallet in the barn with their horses. Jaskier isn’t best pleased about the whole situation, as he loudly complains to Geralt—“There’s straw in my hair and dirt up my arse, Geralt. You did not tell me that I’d be swapping feather beds for floorboards!”—but when the weather gets warmer, they shift their bedrolls outside – and sometimes when Yennefer wakes, Ciri’s out there with them, curled up between them with Geralt’s arm thrown carefully over her and Jaskier both. 

There’s also the time that Yennefer opens the window to a beautiful sunny morning and sees them both fully naked, Jaskier in Geralt’s lap, his head thrown back and mouth wide open as Geralt thrusts into him, his face buried in the bard’s throat. Yennefer closes the window at the sight, rolls her eyes, then smirks and conjures up a little rain. 

Jaskier’s yelps are sharp in the summer air. 

Ciri grows, and grows, and grows. The Chaos inside her is unfettered, untamed, but she gets ever more comfortable with it. She doesn’t control it, per se, doesn’t bend it to her will, but she rides it like she’s riding a wave, holding her balance as long as she can until she goes crashing down into the troughs. Most days, she’s good. Most days, she learns from Yennefer and learns from Geralt and laughs with Jaskier, and she’s good. 

But then there are the nights. 

Yennefer wakes to the cottage trembling around her, midnight streaming in from outside, bricks and mortar groaning with pressure and upset. She swears, shoves the blankets away, then nearly falls when she gets out of bed because the floor is practically rippling under her feet. She makes it out into the corridor, tries to get to Ciri’s door but fails – she can’t stay upright, can’t fight against the aura of power and grief that’s pouring out from that little girl. Yennefer shouts into the maelstrom gathering around her, reaches out, tries to cast a spell to quiet Ciri’s mind – but she’s too strong, she’s _too strong_. 

“ _Yennefer!_ ” Geralt shouts. He’s at the top of the stairs, Jaskier only a few steps behind. “Can you stop her?”

The building is rushing around them, echoing, bitter. The air is sharp and acrid in Yennefer’s lungs. “I can’t reach her,” she says. “She’s too far in it, she’s too scared.”

“Fuck,” Geralt barks, and stumbles as the floor rucks under him, goes to one knee. 

Yennefer tries to go to him, to help, but she’s pinned in place by something that’s not her doing – pinned in place by Ciri, she realises. “She’s keeping us away,” she snaps to Geralt, who’s on his hands and knees now, arms shaking with effort against whatever invisible force from the mind of a terrified child is forcing him down. 

“No shit,” he grinds out, and groans. 

Yennefer’s heart rattles in her chest, flooded with fear – for herself, for Geralt, for _Ciri_. 

“She’s not keeping me away,” Jaskier says, almost a murmur, and steps around Geralt with light steps. He presses a hand into Geralt’s shoulder, meets Yennefer’s gaze – and Yennefer can see the fear in his eyes, see the understanding there that they can’t help him. He coughs, straightens his sleep shirt, and says, “Okay, then.”

He steps slowly down the corridor, barefoot, hair mussed, looking far more like some lord’s pampered bedpartner than a man about to wrestle with an out-of-control channel of Chaos – but he’s not stopped. No, that’s not right. Yennefer rephrases: Ciri doesn’t stop him. 

Jaskier opens the door to Ciri’s bedroom, and goes inside. 

Pinned to the floor, Geralt grunts something that Yennefer can’t make out, something pained and afraid. 

And that’s when Yennefer hears it. Over the groaning of the house, over the grinding of the brickwork and the slapping of the floorboards, she can hear Jaskier’s voice, rich and smooth, singing words that she can’t make out but a tune she recognises – that lullaby, that Cintran lullaby, and Yennefer’s heart seizes in her chest. 

The pressure on her body lessens, just a little, and she sees Geralt push himself up, his muscles straining a little less. 

“It’s working,” she says, astonished, then calls as loud as she can manage, “Jaskier, it’s working.” 

Jaskier doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge her – but she can see him now, in her mind’s eye, see him kneeling next to Ciri’s bed as Ciri hangs above the covers, held in a storm of her own power, lips open in a silent scream. He’s not touching her, he’s not holding her, he’s just kneeling there and singing to her, hair swept back in the wind, eyes bright with fear. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, forcing himself to his knees, fists clenched tight. 

“He’s okay,” Yennefer says, pulling away from the doorway she’s been pinned to. “He’s calming her.” 

Jaskier sings, and Ciri’s power slowly quiets. 

When the house is calm again, everything silent except for the rasp of Geralt’s breathing and the soft melody of Jaskier’s voice, Yennefer steps carefully along the corridor to Ciri’s room and looks through the door. It’s been maybe an hour since Jaskier came in here and he hasn’t moved, still on his knees on the boards next to Ciri’s bed, but now his hand rests lightly on her forehead and she sleeps, normal sleep, quiet sleep. Yennefer flashes through her mind, just skims the surface of her thoughts, and sees nothing but blackness and rest. She’s calm. She’s sleeping. 

Jaskier is still singing, his voice shaking ever so slightly. His fingers are trembling, and there’s a glazed expression in his eyes. 

Yennefer kneels next to him, takes his hand from Ciri’s forehead and presses her fingers to his lips. “Jaskier,” she says quietly. “You can stop.” 

He comes to a grinding halt midway through a line, and lets out a long, whispering breath. “Is she okay?” he asks, rough and raspy. 

Yennefer nods. “She’s asleep.”

“Why?” Jaskier asks, his hand still held in hers. “Why me?”

Yennefer can read the answer in Ciri’s dreams. “Because she trusts you,” she says. “You are not her teacher or her guardian, you aren’t here to train her. You… comfort her. You’re her friend.” 

Geralt kneels quietly with them, his hand pressing firm and steady against Jaskier’s back. Yennefer doesn’t miss how Jaskier leans into the touch, how his shoulders slump, how his head tips back. Geralt catches him against his shoulder, nods to Yennefer, says, “I’ve got him. See to her.” 

Yennefer goes to Ciri, checks her over, tucks her deeper into the bedclothes and sits with her, leaning against the headboard. She’s not about to leave her, not after tonight, not after all of her powerlessness tonight, not after Ciri’s subconscious rejection – and she looks up, to Geralt, to Jaskier, and sees Geralt pull Jaskier into his arms, murmur something in his ear that Yennefer doesn’t hear, watches as Jaskier’s eyes slide shut and he goes limp against Geralt’s chest with a soft sigh. 

Geralt looks up at her, expression oddly open. “He’s asleep,” he says quietly. 

“He saved us,” Yennefer says. “He saved her. With his _singing_.”

Geralt runs a hand through Jaskier’s hair. “It’s drained him,” he says. 

“I’m not surprised,” Yennefer says. “The energies she was drawing from the world were… enormous. She was feeding on his strength as well as ours. It’s just that… he gave her something else, as well.” She pauses, watches the soft rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest, the way his forehead presses instinctively against Geralt’s neck, the way Geralt holds him so carefully, so reverently. “He’s a good man.” 

Geralt hums his agreement. 

They spend the rest of the night like that, Yennefer with her hand in Ciri’s hair, Geralt with Jaskier held close and careful in his arms. When Ciri wakes in the morning, eyes full of questions, Yennefer kisses her forehead and tells her not to worry, that they’re here, that there’s nothing in the world that will take her away from them. 

Later, Yennefer watches as Geralt takes Jaskier outside, to the bedrolls that they abandoned in the night. Jaskier wobbles on his feet occasionally, unsteady, unstable, but Geralt catches him, presses a hand to his cheek, kisses him softly, tenderly, maybe even lovingly. 

Warmth kindles deep in Yennefer’s heart. 

It’s too good to last, of course. 

They come early in the morning, a rabble from the nearest villages, hopped up on hatred of Witchers and witches, starving from the ravages of the war and full of righteous, misdirected anger. Yennefer is woken by Geralt, shaking her firmly by the shoulder – his hair is tied back and his steel sword is already in his hand, ready to fight. “A mob,” he says, short and to the point. “They’re here for blood.” 

Yennefer takes a breath. “How many?” 

“Maybe twenty,” Geralt says. He looks over his shoulder, to where Jaskier stands with Ciri at his side, his hand in hers. She’s awake and her eyes are bright. “Ciri, stay here with Jaskier. We’ll deal with this.” 

“I can help,” Ciri says, tight, high-pitched. “I’m better at controlling it, now.” 

Jaskier squeezes her hand. “Which is exactly why I need you to stay here with me,” he says, his voice falsely optimistic. “Need you to protect me while these two are off fighting the monsters.” 

“You don’t need me to protect you, Jaskier,” Ciri says sharply. 

“You’re staying here, anyway,” Geralt says, and then, before Ciri can protest, “No arguments. We don’t have time.” He waits only long enough for Ciri’s nod, then looks to Yennefer. “Yen?”

Yennefer pulls on a jacket and nods. “I’m ready.”

They leave Jaskier and Ciri in the cottage, and go outside. There’s more than twenty of them, maybe thirty, thirty-five, and they’ve got pitchforks and swords and they have no intention of letting them get out alive. Townsfolk and villagers, drunk on power and alcohol, and Yennefer has no desire to cut them down but they don’t give her a choice. They attack, vicious and biting, and Yennefer might be in her nightdress but she’s more than capable of holding her own. 

Geralt fights alongside her, economical and keen in his movements, and he saves her just as often as she saves him. 

The final handful of attackers turn and run when the grass runs red with their comrades’ blood, and Yennefer finally lets herself breathe, high on adrenaline, buzzed on fear. “Geralt,” she says. 

“That’s the last of them,” he says, blood splattered across his cheek, a slash in the sleeve of his jerkin. 

“Thank fuck for that,” Yennefer spits, wiping bodily fluids off her sleeves – except wait, no, it’s not done, because she can smell it on the air. Not just blood, not just shit, not just fear. 

_Fire._

Geralt’s eyes go wide at the same time, and they turn as one back towards the cottage. Flames gout high and hot out of the windows, licking up towards the trees, catching in the branches, setting the forest ablaze – but Yennefer’s not worrying about that, because a darkness settles cold in her belly. 

“Ciri,” Geralt says. 

She turns to him. “Jaskier,” she says in response. 

They run. 

The flames are too hot to get too close. Yennefer throws up her hands, uses what little strength she has left to dampen the fire, but it’s raging too strong for her, now and she can’t hold it. She staggers, catches herself against Geralt, and fear floods her vision. “Ciri!” she shouts. “ _Ciri!_ ”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt roars, his hand tight around her wrist. 

The front door of the house crashes open and a dark shape staggers out, fire bursting all around its edges. Yennefer surges forward but it’s too hot, _too hot_ – and she falls back, shouts out in pain. The shape stumbles towards them, resolving into Jaskier, carrying Ciri, her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist – and his cheeks are streaked with soot, his doublet singed, his hair smouldering. He collapses to his knees at Yennefer’s feet, Ciri clinging to him like she’ll never let him go, but Geralt drags him up again, pulls them further away from the burning wreck of the house. 

“She froze,” Jaskier gasps, Ciri wrapped tight around him. “When the fire started, when she smelled the smoke, she froze. I had to carry her out of there, I’m sorry, I couldn’t save anything else.”

Yennefer helps him kneel, but Ciri shows no signs of letting go and she’s not going to force it. She presses her hand to Ciri’s forehead, only feels fear and grief, not the raw bitterness of uncontainable Chaos, and lets out a long breath. “Ciri,” she says quietly. “Ciri, it’s okay. You can let go of him.” 

Ciri doesn’t move. 

Jaskier offers her a pained smile. “I’ve got her for now,” he says. “If you wouldn’t mind maybe putting my hair out?” 

Yennefer figures that’s the least she can do. 

Geralt, being Geralt, has seen that they’re safe and has gone back to see what he can salvage. The barn is far enough away from the cottage that the horses are safe, if a little spooked, along with the contents of Geralt and Jaskier’s bedrolls—Geralt’s swords and potions, Jaskier’s lute—but everything in the house is gone. Their provisions, Yennefer’s spellcasting equipment, Ciri’s spare clothes. Gone. Burned. 

That’s all they have. Two horses and the contents of their saddlebags. 

“We should go,” Geralt says, soft and rough. “The cottage is gone, and we’re clearly not welcome here anymore.” 

“Go where?” Yennefer asks, a kind of bitter desperation curling in her heart. “Aretuza is closed to me. The Nilfgaardians are searching for us.”

“Kaer Morhen.” It’s not Geralt who says it, it’s Jaskier, Ciri’s hair caught across his lips. “Right, Geralt?” 

Geralt’s jaw is tight, and he nods. 

“The Witcher fortress,” Yennefer says. 

“We’ll be safe there,” Geralt says. “They’ll protect us, protect Ciri.” He shrugs. “It’s not exactly luxury, but it’s safe.” 

Yennefer can feel the question skating in Jaskier’s mind, unasked. She asks it. “Will they accept a sorceress and a human?” 

Geralt’s expression tightens. “I will make them,” he says. 

Still clinging to Jaskier, Ciri shifts, looks up, and there’s a fire in her eyes that makes Yennefer’s mouth go dry. “ _I_ will make them,” she says, full of fear, full of anger. “I will not allow you to leave me.” 

“It’s okay, Ciri,” Jaskier says, pressing his hand to the back of her head, looking at Yennefer with exhaustion in his eyes. “We’re not going anywhere.” 

They leave, in the end, winding away from the burning embers of the cottage with what little they have left. Geralt and Jaskier share one horse, Yennefer and Ciri the other, and they travel in silence until darkness falls. Yennefer can still see the woods smouldering in the distance behind them, a faint flicker on the horizon, so they keep riding until the woods are nothing but darkness around them. 

They make camp, without a fire. Ciri sleeps in Yennefer’s arms, Jaskier curled in on himself a few feet away – and when Yennefer wakes in the night, stirred by the wind and the whimpers in Ciri’s throat, Geralt is standing over them, keeping guard. 

“Geralt,” Yennefer says softly. 

“It’s safe,” Geralt says. “Go back to sleep.” 

Yennefer closes her eyes and does as he says. 

The next day, the weather is fine and bright.

Yennefer rides Jaskier’s grey mare through the great paths. The mare’s name is Astrid, which Yennefer privately thinks is a very elaborate name for a horse – but, then again, she does belong to Jaskier. Ciri sits astride Roach, quiet and subdued, and Geralt and Jaskier walk together a little way ahead. Yennefer watches them all, watches the way that Ciri’s shoulders straighten and relax as the day goes on, as the sunshine brushes golden through her hair, as they get further and further away from the burned ruins of the life they made. She begins to speak again, after a few hours, asking Yennefer about the woods, about the route – and then, when they stop for lunch, she asks Geralt about Kaer Morhen, about the Witchers who live there. Geralt is predictably monosyllabic on the whole topic. 

After they’ve eaten what little Geralt managed to forage from the land around them, they set off again – and Yennefer shifts her focus, studies the way that Geralt walks a little too close to Jaskier, the way that Jaskier still coughs smoke and soot out of his lungs, the soft lilt of their conversation, the occasional brush of their shoulders. There’s an ease to their physicality, a comfort. A tenderness.

There’s that warmth again, settled deep in Yennefer’s heart. 

They camp at the edge of the woods that night, and when Yennefer drifts into awareness in the small hours of the morning, Ciri is the only one still with her, wrapped in a smoky blanket and curled up next to the fire. Yennefer sits up slowly, her heart beating faster in her chest, and she’s fairly confident that wherever Geralt and Jaskier have fucked off to, wherever they are, they’re safe – but she’s beginning to realise that she’s not in this alone, not anymore. She closes her eyes, murmurs a few words, and finds them – not far away, together in the darkness, Jaskier’s hands braced against a tree, trousers and smallclothes around his knees, with Geralt’s hands on his hips, Geralt buried deep inside him. Their movements are slow, careful, almost sensuous, and as Yennefer watches, Geralt hisses out a breath, gutters, “ _Yen_.”

In Yennefer’s defence, she woke up in the middle of the night in the woods to find half her company—family?—had disappeared. It’s not her fault that they’re just randy bastards. 

Jaskier barks a laugh, rich with arousal. “One,” he says. “That is the _last time_ that you say anyone else’s name while you’re balls deep inside me. Two? I do _not_ care, let her _watch_ , just don’t you _dare_ stop.”

Geralt makes a noise that’s borderline animalistic, and does something with his hips that makes Jaskier’s knees buckle. 

Yennefer leaves them to it, and goes back to sleep. 

When they reach Kaer Morhen, in the end, they’re met by a man that Yennefer recognises from Geralt’s memories – tall, grizzled, scarred. “I am Vesemir,” he says, gaze lingering on Geralt then passing over the rest of them, the witch in stolen clothing, the child with her chin raised high, the ever-cheerful bard with his travel-worn lute. “It’s good to see you, Geralt. And who have you brought with you?”

“The sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Geralt says. “Princess Cirilla of Cintra. And Jaskier.” Yennefer hears him pause, feels him stutter – how to describe Jaskier to his mentor, to his _father_? “He’s a bard,” Geralt finishes, a little lamely. 

“Two with power,” Vesemir says, “and a human. A human, Geralt? In Kaer Morhen?” 

“The human stays,” Yennefer snaps, before she can think better of it – and she feels Jaskier’s gaze on her, surprised, full of warmth. “We’ve been travelling a long time, Witcher. Would a bed and a bath be too much to ask?” 

If Vesemir is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Geralt?”

Geralt nods, slowly. “They stay, Vesemir,” he says. “They all do.” 

Ciri stands at Yennefer’s side, her cloak travel-stained, her eyes age-worn, and Jaskier stays behind them both, one hand around the neck of his lute, the other holding a bag of what little they salvaged from the fire. Geralt is Geralt, of course, firm and strong, and Yennefer is there with them, there beside them, this strange little family that she never expected to find and never expected to keep. 

Vesemir studies her, inscrutable. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen,” he says. “Come with me.”


End file.
